Poems by Wilfred Owen

also known as: Wilfred Edward Salter Owen

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(Being the philosophy of many Soldiers.)
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
I, too, saw God through mud--
Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade
His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed.
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Move him into the sun--
Red lips are not so red
Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
This book is not about heroes. English Poetry is not yet fit to speak of them. Nor is it about deeds or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, dominion or power,
"I will to the King,
Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned
Halted against the shade of a last hill,
It seemed that out of the battle I escaped
Earth's wheels run oiled with blood. Forget we that.
I mind as 'ow the night afore that show
He dropped,--more sullenly than wearily,
After the blast of lightning from the east,
Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their way
We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,
My soul looked down from a vague height with Death,
(Another version of "A Terre".)